“Indeed!” cried Mary, much interested. “So, you see, when you ask _me_ to talk to you about Homer, you are getting yourself into trouble, most probably.” “Let me have it.” The Don smiled and shook his head. “What!” cried she, with amazement, “I may not touch it?” “Well, as a special favor, you may; but it must not go out of my possession. Here, you hold that lid and I this. No, this way,” added the Don, rising. He had been seated on her right; but now placing his chair to her left, he held out the little volume to her, holding the left lid, together with a few pages, between finger and thumb. What could be his object in changing his position? Was there something written on the flyleaf? She gave a quick glance at his face, but instantly checked herself and broke out into a merry laugh. “How perfectly absurd!” said she. “We look, for all the world, like two Sunday-school children reading the same hymn-book! What!” exclaimed she, with quick interest, and looking up into his face: “The original Greek?” “Yes,” replied he, quietly; “no real master-piece can ever be translated.” Just then some chords were sounded on the piano, and the Don turned and looked in that direction. Mary raised her eyes and scanned his face narrowly. She was reading him afresh by the light he had just cast upon himself. For her, being such as she was, this man of surprises had acquired a new interest. CHAPTER XLIII. “Ladies unt shentlemens, I have de pleasure to announce dot Miss Lucy will now favor de company mit a song.” The Herr was seated at the piano, while Lucy stood by his side. “What! does she sing, too?” inquired the Don, with interest. “Oh, yes; Lucy has a very sweet voice.” The Don sat and listened, with a pleased smile, nodding approvingly from time to time. “Not very strong,” remarked he, when the song was ended, “but, as you say, sweet and sympathetic—very.” A second ballad was called for, which Lucy gave, and then her mother suggested Schubert’s “Serenade.” She had hardly sung half a dozen notes, when Mary noticed a peculiar expression on the Don’s face. It was a face which, when in repose, was always grave, to say the least; and there were times when it seemed to many stern, even grim. But now as he gazed, wide-eyed and dreamy, upon the bank of coals before him, the firm lines of his features melted into an inexpressible softness. “Oh, that I were a musician, to bring that beautiful look into his face! Lucy’s fingers have stolen half his heart, her voice the rest.” Thus sighed Mary in the depths of her troubled spirit.